


All Your Last Demands

by stardropdream



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2446394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shut up,” Arthur says, but his eyes betray his gentleness as he moves over him.  “My turn. All you ever do is fawn over me.  So—”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Last Demands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Written from a prompt I got aaaaaaaaaaall the way back in January, which was a request for "body worship" and merthur, and also for emphasis on the scars that Merlin got over the years, and basically Arthur just fawning over him. I feel like I could have pushed it more but I didn't want it to fall into overly sappy territory (didn't fully succeed with that, admittedly, but whatever who doesn't like shmoop).

Arthur looks up at Merlin with a quirk of his lips and lifts his eyebrows after a moment – tilting his head and looking at Merlin, who stands at the window. “You going to just stand there like an idiot all night or are you going to get over here?”

His words are slightly slurred, quiet and sleepy. And Merlin wants to laugh, still heavy with the expectation that he’s fallen into a dream, anchored only by the knowledge of how real and weighted Arthur is in his arms, beneath his hands, pressed to him and smiling and breathing, hair in his eyes and eyes sleepy and warm as he looks at him. 

Merlin allows himself one contented sigh before he rolls his eyes, exaggerated enough that Arthur can see it even in his sleep-addled stupidity. Since the moment that Arthur remerged from the waters of Avalon, Merlin feels only that crazy urge to laugh and to cry at once a million times over (and has even given into that urge more than once). There’s a kind of arresting, constricting _freedom_ in the way he can enter a room and see Arthur there waiting for him, puzzling over some pop-culture reference he doesn’t understand or delighting when he sees something that reminds him of a world long gone. There’s a freedom to the moment when he can see any small crack in Arthur’s emotional armor when he thinks he should be strong and allows himself to crumble, vulnerable, under Merlin’s hands. There’s a freedom to how he can frame Arthur’s face gently in his hands and press his lips to his mouth – to any moment like this, he knows that he is happy and weightless, even when chained to a lingering sadness, thumbs pressing to Arthur’s cheeks. So many ghosts between them, behind them. 

But having Arthur here and now, smiling at him, makes thousands of years more than worth it – every single time. 

Arthur stretches out on the bed, luxurious and kingly even when wearing one of Merlin’s old pair of sweatpants (he really does need to get Arthur some clothes of his own soon), ratty and color faded. And he’s scratching at his hair, mushing it up on one side and blinking up at him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks when he catches Merlin’s eye. 

“Nothing,” Merlin says, and finds that he means it – still getting used to the delightfully heavy pressure of love and _happiness_ pushing out of his chest, always aching for him to gush it all out to Arthur, holding it back only to give to him in increments, so as not to overwhelm him. And always failing, because the words pop out before he can stop it, “You look beautiful in moonlight.”

As expected, Arthur’s face scrunches up and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, hell, would you get over here already or are you going to write a poem about it?”

“You don’t appreciate poetry, sire,” Merlin says, and laughs, bending to kiss his temple (and now he can, now he’s allowed, now he _can_ after so many years of thinking about it and longing for it and regretting never realizing when he had the chance—) and smoothes down the disorder of his hair with a tenderness that makes him want to burst into tears all over again. Or laughter. Or both. 

Arthur, of course, notices his expression immediately and frowns. “Are you going to cry?” 

“No,” Merlin whispers out, voice wobbling. 

Arthur mutters something, probably an insult, and Merlin’s smile only gets brighter, and Arthur lifts his hand, cupping the back of Merlin’s head and drags him down, kissing him. And Merlin sighs out, cupping his face and kissing him deeply, murmuring his name for just the joy of saying it again – again and again, and to have Arthur hear him. 

And then Arthur rolls away, embarrassed, and Merlin smiles for the heavy joy of _that_ , and his eyes trace down the heavy crisscrossing of scars over his back. They’ve faded with time – a millennium of time – but he knows each one, remembers fresh dressings, tentative cleaning in evenings, the loud curses when Merlin agitated wounds not yet healed with their usual morning routine. Merlin’s heart pushes up into his throat, and he smiles, laying his palm down and just enjoying the feel of it – feeling him, alive and warm and breathing, beneath him. 

There are similar scars, on Arthur’s chest, too – lighter, not as deep – save for the one that slashes across his abdomen, pinpricked and precise, and devastating – the lasting reminder of Mordred and Morgana. The first that Merlin saw it, he had cried at the sight of it, and spent far too long (in Arthur’s very loudly stated opinion) staring at it and touching it. Until it became part of Merlin. Until the scar was traced down across his heart, as it had been for years and centuries. 

He traces one scar, and then another, thin white lines and thick, jagged ones, tracing each with the tip of his finger. 

“What are you doing?” Arthur mutters as Merlin’s tracings become more precise – gentle spells without meaning and command, but just as powerful: silent promises to always protect him, to keep him from ever bearing these scars alone, or any more ever again. 

“Hm?” Merlin hums, before the question registers. “I’m making a promise, so don’t interrupt.” 

“A promise to yourself?” Arthur asks in a way that betrays how badly he’s rolling his eyes. “You’re such a girl.” 

“Yes, yes,” Merlin says, and mutters a small insult, pinching the back of Arthur’s neck so he yelps. 

“Hey!”

“Don’t be such a cabbage-head, then!” 

“I _wasn’t_ ,” Arthur says and swats with perfect accuracy at Merlin, who only just manages to duck out of the way – and even his annoyance is outweighed by the sheer amount of affection that even something so benign can be _his_ again. Everything is alright now – everything. 

Merlin’s fingers trace down Arthur’s back, spelling out the words of magic, feeling their power curl along his skin, mapping out spells across his scarred and perfect back. Arthur glances at him over his shoulder, frowning thoughtfully.

“Hey…”

“Should I stop?” Merlin asks, quietly, looking at him.

Arthur shakes his head and looks away. Merlin sees the way the tops of his ears turn pink, though, and can’t help but smile, his fingertips splaying out over his back. He feels the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing, feels his heartbeat steady beneath him. He smiles, breathing out himself, sliding his fingertips down along Arthur’s spine, marvels at the way Arthur arches up to meet him. 

Arthur doesn’t protest the touch, doesn’t even make a snide comment, so Merlin continues his movements – touching over Arthur’s back, tracing along delicate webs of scars that stretch across his back, studies the slope of his neck, the curl of hair at the nape, the way it curls lightly around his ears, the way his muscles bunch up as he shifts and stretches out beneath him. Merlin moves to straddle him, hands sliding down over his back – less a massage and more of a mapping of his body, something he knows so intimately, something he’s known without a fading of his memory over the centuries. 

“I missed you,” he says – and not for the first time, either, his fingertips touching at the nape of Arthur’s neck and kneading gently, watching Arthur melt slowly beneath his touch. 

“I know,” Arthur says, ducking his head. “Me too.” 

Merlin smiles to himself and ducks his head down, kissing each scar over Arthur’s back, lingering close, fingers dragging to trace along his ribs and down over his side, touching his hips with gentle reverence as he kisses each bump of his spine. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, half a warning and half a plea, shivering beneath him.

“Does it tickle, Sire?” Merlin asks, a curve of a smile sliding along the small of his back. 

“No,” Arthur says, firmly, and then he rocks back against him enough to push him away and turns over, sitting up and grasping him by his shoulders, leaning in and kissing him – fierce and determined. He lingers close and Merlin sighs out, melting against him and kissing him back with a gentled kind of franticness, needing him close, never wanting to let him go.

And then Arthur pushes him back and Merlin blinks up at him with a frown. “Arthur—”

“Shut up,” Arthur says, but his eyes betray his gentleness as he moves over him. “My turn.” 

“What—” Merlin begins, and then his words cut off with a soft sound when Arthur ducks his head down and kisses his shoulder, lips sliding over the curve of an old scar. Merlin shivers a little when Arthur lingers. “Wait, Arthur,” Merlin begins, protesting, and squirming even when Arthur presses a steadying hand against his shoulder to keep him in place, legs bracketing his. “I’m the one who should…”

“No,” Arthur cuts in smoothly, pulling back to frown at him. “All you ever do is fawn over me. So—”

“So, what, you want to fawn on me now?” Merlin can’t help but tease, if only to watch the way the blush creeps over Arthur’s cheeks. 

“No, you idiot,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head. He catches Merlin’s hands and pins them down above his head, leaning over him with a determined frown, enough so that their foreheads press together. Merlin watches as Arthur closes his eyes, breathing out. “I mean only that… let me do this for you, you fool. Just let me, alright?” 

Merlin finds he doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he just nods a little, his lips quirking into what could be considered a smile. Motivated by the reaction, Arthur nods once and then kisses him, slow and lingering and gentle – and just that is enough to make Merlin feel as if his heart is breaking. His breath hitches a little and Arthur lifts a hand, cupping his cheek gently, thumb swiping across his cheekbone as he kisses him, slow and precise. Merlin breathes out a little and matches his pace, kissing him and arching slightly beneath him, aching for him. Arthur just focuses on kissing him for a long moment, lips pillowing against his, teeth brushing across his bottom lip, tongue swiping into his mouth and meeting his – and Merlin feels himself growing completely and utterly relaxed, melting beneath him, making soft, encouraging sounds, sleepy and sighing, inhaling and feeling as if he is sinking into the mattress, and Arthur is sinking into him. 

“Arthur,” he whispers when Arthur pulls back from him. He blinks his eyes open to see Arthur smiling at him – a little smug, but mostly fond. 

“Alright there, Merlin? Surely that isn’t what’s going to knock you out,” Arthur says with a small smile – and it is crooked and endearing at the same time as it is frustrating, and Merlin scoffs – about to bite out something cutting before Arthur ducks down and kisses him again and Merlin sighs out that soft, sleepy kind of happiness instead, curling his arms and legs around him, clinging to him and pulling Arthur down close to him, arching against him. Arthur’s the one to make the soft, happy sound that time.

“You were saying, My Lord?” 

“I was saying, _shut up,_ ” Arthur shoots back, but he’s smiling and his blue eyes are warm and open as he beams down at him and Merlin shivers a little. 

And then he murmurs Arthur’s name very quietly and Arthur nods, moving up somewhat frantically, kissing his face, his lips, his neck. His hands slide down over Merlin, and Merlin shivers, if only from the brief feeling of insecurity, that brief feeling of inadequacy, sprawled out beneath a man who is muscle and sunshine and sweet, smiling mouth. And it is a ridiculous feeling, for Merlin has lived centuries, has experience enough to know what he wants and what he needs, experience enough to recognize the full, unburdened look Arthur gives him, smiling softly. 

Merlin spreads his legs and cants his hips up, grinding against Arthur. Arthur swears quietly and ducks his head, kissing over his cheek and jaw, lips swollen, face pink, and he looks unbelievably handsome like this, already coming undone even when he attempts to control. And Merlin tilts his head, catches his mouth, kisses him and cups him through the sweatpants he’s wearing. 

Arthur makes a high, keening sound, but then pulls back. “Wait – wait, damn it. Let me—”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Merlin whispers, tugging the sweatpants down, pulling until Arthur shimmies out of it properly, naked above him, cock already hard. Merlin strokes his fingers over him and Arthur shivers. 

“Merlin,” he returns, rocking into the touch and then pinning him down to stop him. “Let me.”

“Anything,” Merlin gasps out, but squirms a little under Arthur’s heavy gaze – looking at him and not seeming the least bit concerned about his nakedness. But, then again, Merlin has seen him naked so many times, even before this, even when he was merely a servant dressing Arthur for the day or bathing him. Merlin reaches his hands up, cups his face. “I’m yours, Arthur. Always have been. I mean it.” 

Arthur swallows thickly, looking surprised, and Merlin half expects to be teased for such soppy words. But instead, Arthur closes his eyes, cups his hand over one of Merlin’s. The smile he gives him is uniquely his – endlessly warm, with the hint of smug and teasing to it, and he drops his hands to tug off Merlin’s clothes (with some effort and some assistance from Merlin). 

Arthur pulls away a little, settling between Merlin’s thighs, dropping light kisses over his neck and collar, and Merlin shivers a little, feeling a little bare and exposed. It isn’t the first time that Arthur has seen him naked, of course – the first night he’d returned, things had gotten a little frenzied, a little frantic, and it’d ended far too quickly with a rush of gasping air and hurried kisses, trying to condense the longing and desire of a thousand years into one single moment. And there have been other times since then. 

But this is the first time, it feels like, that Arthur is simply _looking_ , his eyes sweeping over him – and it makes Merlin squirm. He is too thin. He is too pale. He is too small and too scrawny and too paled in comparison to the man above him, golden and light and hard edges of muscles. 

(Not, of course, that Merlin thinks he is without his own talents – for he’s seen the way Arthur’s face twists up when he comes, when Merlin does _exactly_ what Arthur likes, with a flick of his hand and a whisper of magic.) 

But Arthur’s hands drag down reverently over his chest and stomach, and Merlin tries to keep his heart from fluttering too much, tries to not let his nervousness betray on his face. 

“Arthur,” he begins, warily. 

Arthur kisses a small scar at his hip. “Tell me where you got this one.” 

Merlin twists a little to look down, sees the way Arthur’s fingers trace gently along the scar. “Ehm… 1930 or… 1932, perhaps? I tripped over a curb, I think.” 

Arthur laughs, quietly, and kisses the scar again. Merlin shivers. 

“You really don’t… have to,” Merlin says, voice quiet. 

Arthur looks up at him, and seems to finally take in his face – sees the wariness there. He lifts himself up so that he’s over Merlin, looking down at him, expression open and gentle, drunk on sleepiness. 

“You know,” Arthur says quietly. “When I thought about this I – I imagined this is what you’d look like. Didn’t know if it’d actually be like that.” 

Merlin barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You expected me to be skin and bones?”

Arthur doesn’t laugh, though, as Merlin expected him to. He shakes his head, lightly, and presses a reverential kiss to the tip of his nose, which is both endearing and, frankly, ridiculous. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Arthur says. 

“I’m not,” Merlin replies, and rolls his eyes a little, touches his hands to his shoulders and holds tight, leaning up to kiss him properly. Arthur makes a soft sound of pleasure and kisses him back.

They kiss for a long moment, just focusing on that, and Merlin slides his fingers into Arthur’s hair, holding tight. 

But Arthur pulls back soon enough to kiss along his jaw, and presses a kiss to a little scar just below his ear, along the line of his neck. “And this one?” 

“Running through a forest,” Merlin says, after a pause with remembering. “I got caught on a branch. Sixteenth century, I think.” 

“Mm,” Arthur murmurs, and kisses down his neck, pushing Merlin more fully onto his back and keeping him there. Merlin closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. Arthur kisses at a scar on his shoulder. “This one?”

“I don’t remember,” Merlin admits. The scar is soft and faded with time – one of the first he’d gotten, one of the first he’d never bothered to properly heal in time to prevent the scarring. He equates it to magical interference that he should have scars for as long as centuries, when some just fade within a few decades. 

“Why are you acting all shy?” Arthur asks, giving him a bemused expression. “It’s strange.” 

“We can’t all be smug dollopheads,” Merlin says, mostly out of habit, and Arthur scoffs loudly. 

“Tell me,” Arthur says, not quite a demand but certainly on the edge of being so. Merlin sighs and rolls his eyes, which only makes Arthur parrot the expression, his sigh somehow even heavier and more put-upon. 

He touches Merlin’s cock, circles it with his fingers, touch loving and gentle, bending his head to kiss over the inches of Merlin’s skin, all lips and tongue, and kisses his way to Merlin’s mouth – which Merlin is by no means charmed by because, in reality, this is hardly a good way for Merlin to tell him much of anything when he’s distracted with kissing him. It’s also very difficult to think with the way Arthur’s touching at him, and Merlin makes a soft, huffing sound into the kiss as he rocks his hips up. 

“I’m not shy,” Merlin says. “Have you looked at yourself, though?” 

Arthur, somewhat comically, ducks his head, lifting his eyebrows. Then he seems to realize that Merlin means it somewhat rhetorically and he gives him a quietly annoyed look. 

And then says, not so quietly, “What about me?” 

Merlin pokes him in the ribs. “You’re gorgeous.”

Arthur sputters a little, and ducks his head, but not before Merlin catches the embarrassed smile. Arthur’s hand lingers on his cock, stroking him, and Merlin gasps out quietly at the touch, rocking up into his hand. 

Arthur frowns at him after a moment, though, thoughtfully, blushing and looking away when he mutters, “So are you.” Merlin snorts. Loudly. And Arthur just turns to give him a sharp glare. “It’s true! Don’t laugh!”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin says, with the intent of pacifying, petting his fingers through Arthur’s hair. 

One hand touches at a spot on Merlin’s arm, just above his elbow. “What about this one?” 

Merlin twists a little, catches sight of the scar, and smiles a little – warm rather than self-conscious. “This is my newest one.”

“Yeah?” Arthur asks, thumb circling along his cockhead in a way that is utterly distracting. 

Merlin squirms his head up and nods his head. “Yeah – it’s. From running to you coming out of the lake – when we both fell over. I didn’t get the angle right and cut my arm on a rock. But I don’t care, this – this is one I’ll keep forever.” 

Arthur is quiet for a long moment, and then he ducks his head and presses his mouth to the jagged line of the scar, kissing it gently. Merlin closes his eyes, sighs out, and Arthur contents himself with kissing up his arm, over his shoulder, up his neck, nuzzling against his jaw. 

“Don’t laugh,” Arthur says as he kisses the slope of his ear. “But I mean it – you’re not just skin and bones to me, you dollophead.”

“That’s my word,” Merlin mutters, because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. 

Arthur ignores him, kisses down over him, lingering on every scar, hands dragging down his body, touching him and pressing to him, lingering over every inch of him – and Merlin can’t help but feel at once self-conscious and overwhelmed with the attentions. 

“Not like you to be so self-deprecating, anyway,” Arthur mutters as he laves kisses over Merlin’s stomach. 

Merlin snorts, fists his hands in the pillow above his head for something to do, because he’s squirming and panting and feeling overwhelmed in general. “Well,” he says after a moment, once he can trust his voice, “Not that I want to give you reason to have an even larger ego, but have you actually looked at yourself?” 

Arthur shrugs, nuzzles against his hip and tilts up to kiss each line of his ribs. 

Merlin blushes more, frustrated. “You’re – you’re like the _sun_ , Arthur. It’s frankly insulting how handsome you are.” 

Arthur pauses, nose wrinkling up. “The sun, Merlin. Really?” 

Merlin shrugs and grins, lopsided and just a touch goofy, for lack of anything else he can do. 

“Alright, listen. I’m only saying this once.” Arthur sits up a bit over him, leans in and kisses the tip of his nose, slides his hands up his arms and tangles their fingers together, leaning down so that he’s pressed up flush against Merlin. Merlin arches a little, biting his lip, but looks up at Arthur obediently. 

“Arthur?” he asks, a prompting. 

“I wouldn’t care if you were the ugliest man in the world, alright? As it happens, you’re not – so there you go.” Which, all things considered, is probably one of the worst compliments he’s ever gotten, but the blow is softened by the way Arthur presses up hard to him, the way his cheeks flush, the way his eyes flicker away as if he’s just confessed to something vast and crushing. 

And Merlin can’t help but smile, swallows down a small laugh, and squeezes his hands.

“You dollophead,” he whispers. 

“Shut up,” Arthur answers, leans down, and kisses him. 

Merlin sighs out, arches a little, and returns the kiss – slightly desperate for it now, melting against him. Arthur nods a little, lingers, kisses him and pets one hand through his hair, the other squeezing his hand gently before shifting back down between them, curling around his cock with warm fingers, stroking over it, and Merlin makes a soft sound into the kiss as Arthur lays worship to him.

“Arthur,” Merlin gasps out as Arthur pulls back, nuzzles and kisses down his neck. He doesn’t stop, working his way down, kissing and lingering over every scar he comes across, nuzzles against his heaving stomach, bites down gently at his hip, all the while stroking his cock with a gentle, almost lazy, touch. 

“You’re alright. I’ve got you,” Arthur says, murmurs quiet endearments against his skin that Merlin doesn’t catch, eyes heavy with lust and sleepiness. Merlin catches fragments of words – things like ‘your stupid smile’ and ‘wonderful’ and other such nonsense that nevertheless leaves Merlin feeling flushed all over, rocking his hips up a little into his hand, trying to coax out a faster pace. 

Then Arthur turns his head, moves to his cock, and worships against it, lips curling around the cockhead and sucking gently, palms at Merlin’s thighs and guides the cock into his mouth, and Merlin is dizzy with love and excitement, his breath huffing out in short breaths as Arthur sucks him in with long, indulgent pulls of his fingers, flicks of his tongue. 

Arthur glances up at Merlin, takes in his flushed face, and smiles around the cock in his mouth, looking entirely too smug considering the way he’s tucked up between Merlin’s legs, one hand on his thigh, the other curled around the base of Merlin’s cock. His smile is all stretched lips, the bulge of cock against his cheek as he laves his tongue along the underside. 

“Arthur,” Merlin whines, squirming, pushing up deeper into Arthur’s mouth. “You’re perfect, you’re—”

And Arthur chuckles deep in his throat, pulls back enough to just curl his mouth along the tip of his cock, mouths out something in reply that’s probably a quiet ‘you too’ that he doesn’t voice beyond a husky whisper, urging Merlin to fuck into his soft, yielding mouth, fingertips sliding over his hip and thigh, guiding him in. 

Merlin feels that already with just that he’s getting close, fingers tangling into Arthur’s hair, guiding him along – but before he can really start to lose his senses, Arthur pulls back, moves up to slot along Merlin, his cock dragging into the hollow of Merlin’s hip. Merlin meets his thrusts, rocking his own cock up hard against Arthur’s stomach, drags his hands down his back, arches up and kisses him – sloppy and sleepy, tasting the hint of his own taste against Arthur’s tongue.

They rut against each other, the friction dry but warm and perfect, and Merlin makes soft, keening sounds into Arthur’s mouth, which Arthur responds to with his own little flickering moans, shifting so that their cocks slide together. Merlin clings, curls his arms and legs around him, arches up against him, rocking shamelessly against Arthur. 

“Merlin,” Arthur moans, kisses him deeply, pulls back to nuzzle against his jaw, whispering out all the things that he’s never said before – all in a long string, little compliments that Merlin never would expect to hear, and Arthur looks so overwhelmingly, devastatingly happy that Merlin can’t even remember to laugh or tease. 

Arthur’s making soft little hitches and gasps against him, sounds that Merlin knows means he’s close and Merlin loves the way he trembles and shakes against him, at once confident as he is vulnerable, pressing to Merlin and gasping out his name and more soft affections against his ear, rocking his hips solidly against him, gritting a little, rocking and writhing. Merlin loves that he’s the one that can make Arthur act this way, respond this way – and he knows that, come tomorrow, he’ll preen under the words that Arthur gasps out in this moment (compliments of his eyes, his hair, the feel of him, the touch of him, the slow arch of him), but right now just that’s enough to almost push him over the edge, even if the friction between them wasn’t enough to do that.

They come like that, pressed together and laughing a little, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, noses bumping as they rock relentlessly against one another, stomachs slicked with their come. First Merlin and then Arthur a moment later, rocking faster against him for that friction now, hand glancing between them to curl around Merlin and stroke him to completion. Merlin moans, deep in his throat. 

Arthur hums out, cheeks pink and breath short, and he smiles at Merlin – shockingly boyish and sincere – and kisses over the scars over his collar and shoulder, nuzzles to his neck, murmurs his name like it’s a prayer, and Merlin tangles his fingers into his hair, keeps him close, kisses his temple and nuzzles into his hair. Involuntary tears spring to his eyes and he clamps them shut, clings to Arthur, holds him close and just listens to the rattle of his uneven breaths, the pulse of his heart with his chest pressed to his, curling around him in the afterglow. Arthur is all loose and perfect and when Merlin tilts his head to press their foreheads together again, Arthur is looking at him – something deep and beloved and devoted, smiling a little as he breathes out shakily. 

Merlin smiles back, threads his fingers through his hair and pets it away from his face, just looking at him, and after a moment Arthur mimics the gesture, cupping Merlin’s cheeks and kissing him, then sliding back to tangle in his hair. They stay like that for a long moment, not saying anything, just looking at one another. 

“I love you,” Arthur says, plain and unashamed, even as he blushes and smiles at him almost shyly – as if he doesn’t already know what Merlin will say in return. Merlin opens his mouth to answer, but Arthur bumps his nose against his and adds, “Every stupid part of you.” 

“Hey,” Merlin says, and can’t help but laugh. “Likewise, cabbage-head.”


End file.
